


a little night music.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: M/M, anyway fellas u ever hit on a man by complimenting his music?, for ~something more~, there's no confession but there's a lot of banter and the potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29451612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: “I ask for no audience. I need no listener! My music, yes, it is a weapon forged to kill Gottlieb! The songs that these wretched fingers play – they are all sound and fury, the cries of my hatred!” The man in grey rounded on the Avenger, eyes wild. “You say I cannot hear when I suffer the screams of my damnation in perpetuity? When my music claws at my ears night and day?”The Count didn’t look away. He stood with the impassivity of a crucified Christ, shadows and smoke wreathed round his figure. Only his golden eyes reflected what little light there was, and in those cross-shaped irises, the man in grey saw his gangly figure twist and distort.“That is your curse,” the Count said quietly. “My hatred poisons my heart to be that of a demon, yours mars your music. Believe me or deny me, I will not lie. In your song, I heard sorrow. I heard ‘you.’”---Salieri plays the piano. He receives an unwanted visitor who's insistent on keeping him company.
Relationships: Edmond Dantès | Avenger/Antonio Salieri | Avenger
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	a little night music.

**Author's Note:**

> for @druidqueen on twitter! i hope u like it :^)

The grand piano was far from the strangest item in the Wandering Sea. It was a fine instrument made of good mahogany and spruce. Each key shone with a polished newness that’d tempt any capable musician. But if one laid their hand upon it, they’d feel an intense heat emanating from the wood, as if a roaring fire were caged within the piano. This was not an instrument that wanted to be played – it wanted to burn.

And so, the piano suffered in silence. Locked away in the darkness, it stood with the solemn air of a grave’s headstone, waiting… for nighttime was when the piano could burn at last.

A sliver of light rent apart the darkness. A man in grey entered – skeletal pale with white hair and deep, dark bags beneath his eyes. In his eyes burned the passion of a madman cut loose from his fellows. The man tugged his gloves, adjusted the piano seat, and sat down. He set his fingers upon the keys.

Musicians played their instruments. This man attacked his. He struck each note with the violence of a storm, smacking a horrific melody out of the piano with such force that the floorboards and walls and piano trembled together. What a roar he created! What a terrifying song!

And as quickly as the musical storm had come, it ceased. The man in grey’s fingers jerked to a halt over the keys. He whipped his head over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes.

“Who is there?” the man in grey sneered. He delivered his words with the lilt of an opera singer. “Who dares encroach upon my territory?”

A shape in the darkness stirred. A foot emerged from the shadows, soon followed by an entire man draped in black. The intruder grinned and tipped his hat. “Be at ease, Avenger,” he said. “It is I, the Count of Monte Cristo. I’ve come to pay you a visit.”

Most would have made the mistake of calling the man in grey ‘Salieri.’ The Count’s conscientiousness eased his wariness. “I care not for visitors. Begone.”

“Your music was my invitation.” From the depths of his cloak, the Count drew out a cigar and offered it. “You were playing an overture from _Les Danaïdes_ , no? The energy created by your hands excited me.”

The man in grey regarded the cigar as though it were an alien threat. He was a Servant dedicated to death and condemned to solitude. Pleasantries, such as smoking with friends or receiving guests, died with Salieri. He ought to spit upon this gesture and remind the Count the animal he dealt with.

The man in grey took the cigar. It was a fine belicoso, with a rich aroma any seasoned smoker would appreciate. The Count, pleased that his goodwill was accepted, produced a lighter.

“No,” the man in grey said. “I don’t need you.”

A dark flame sprung from the tip of his finger, smokeless yet hot. A second was all it took to light the cigar and the man in grey couldn’t help breathing out a contented sigh. He could not recall the last time he indulged in something so… earthly. Human.

“It is a limited-edition Dominican blend, procured from Shinjuku,” the Count said. “A fine modern luxury, don’t you agree?”

“Death cannot sample the fruits of life. I accept your offering not for its flavor, but as a sign of respect, for all that touches my lips tastes of ash.”

“Yes, yes, pearls cast before swine are wasted, but I am careful when choosing who to waste my pearls on.”

The man in grey had nothing to say to that. He bit down on the cigar to feel his teeth sink into something. Worse things have been spat at him. Outright hatred and disgust, in fact, would be preferable to this strange camaraderie the Count offered.

His fellow Avenger was unruffled by the silence. The Count lit his own cigar and blew a stream of smoke into the air, where it lingered like the morning mist. He was a creature comfortable in the darkness. Like the man in grey, he wore the shadows as a cloak and carried hellfire in his eyes. Once, a chimera had broken through their front lines. The Count fell upon it with lightning’s fury and tore it apart with his bare hands. He stank of blood when the fight was done and the smell of it remained long in the man in grey’s memory.

“You have a beautiful piano,” said the Count. “You summoned it, I presume?”

The man in grey sucked in the smoke. “Humanity teeters on the brink of extinction. Music elicits joy. Music elicits peace. But there is music for fury. Music for mourning. That is the piano’s purpose.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

“What?”

“Grief is not an emotion often associated with our class.”

“Salieri knew how to grieve. The hollow shell before you feels nothing but hatred for all of God’s beloved.”

The Count gave a wry smile. “I am grateful I am among God’s abandoned, then.”

Strange. The man in grey could not remember the last time he spoke to someone for so long. The moments spent with other Servants – those foolish, lucky ghosts who were secure in their legacies – were smears of time in his memory. But this conversation felt present. Solid. Why was that?

“I am unconcerned with humanity,” the man in grey said at last. “An end by fire. An end by ice. An end with a whimper. Should the world disappear, _that man_ will too. His legacy. His body. His music. Devoured! Lost! That is… how it should be.”

He felt the Count studying him with great scrutiny. “Yet you play the piano.”

“What of it?”

“You do not understand the discrepancy?”

The man in grey gnashed his teeth on his cigar. “Questions, questions. Ask enough and you shall lead yourself by your own tail! All that comes from me is hate. All I pour out is fury! I have nothing else to give!”

“… I see. You cannot hear your own music. That is a tragedy.”

Oh, he ought to seize the Count by the throat. He’ll squeeze until he felt his pulse beneath his palm. Snap his neck – and then they’ll see what infuriating questions can come out from that! The man in grey dropped the cigar and crushed it with his heel. “I know what my songs are.”

“You’re wasting my gift.” The Count raised his eyebrows. “That is good tobacco.”

“I ask for no audience. I need no listener! My music, yes, it is a weapon forged to kill Gottlieb! The songs that these wretched fingers play – they are all sound and fury, the cries of my hatred!” The man in grey rounded on the Avenger, eyes wild. “You say I cannot hear when I suffer the screams of my damnation in perpetuity? When my music claws at my ears night and day?”

The Count didn’t look away. He stood with the impassivity of a crucified Christ, shadows and smoke wreathed round his figure. Only his golden eyes reflected what little light there was, and in those cross-shaped irises, the man in grey saw his gangly figure twist and distort.

“That is your curse,” the Count said quietly. “My hatred poisons my heart to be that of a demon, yours mars your music. Believe me or deny me, I will not lie. In your song, I heard sorrow. I heard ‘you.’”

“What would you know?”

“Is it not apparent? I am versed to the sounds of a man in despair.”

It could not be despair. There should be no room for such emotion in his heart, for the man in grey was a grim reaper. All shackles preventing him from killing the child of god was scrubbed out upon his summoning. He was not a man – he was not in despair – he was hellfire – he was the Devil himself – he was –

A hand upon his shoulder. The man in grey started. The Count was touching him. Why?

“Do you still compose, Avenger?”

Distaste twisted the man in grey’s expression. “Composition is an act of creation. I am a reaper. A creature of destruction. A negative that will never transform into a positive.”

“Forgive my foolishness, I was overeager. You see, I was quite fond of your work in my past life. Aspasia’s aria holds a special place in my heart. _Morte, pietosa morte, dà fine al mio dolor_ … what a moving portrait of tragedy!”

“A portrait… yes, that is what you are remembering. The man who painted the picture you so admire is dead. Seared so thoroughly that not even his soul remains.”

“It is precisely because you are dead that I seek your company. I wish to commission you, Avenger.”

“… you won’t listen to me. Hm.”

“I always get what I want.”

“Not this time. No. It is as I said, there is no spark of ‘Salieri’ left in this walking corpse.”

“If you truly are unable to, then I shall withdraw my commission. But I desire to hear you play again in a proper concert hall. I shall be your only audience.” The Count’s grin shone like a dagger’s blade. “It will be a performance in hell for only two.”

—this nuisance will not leave him alone. It was a mistake to let him linger this long. The man in grey narrowed his eyes. “I care only for Gottlieb’s death.”

“They say you are fond of sweets. You know a man of my taste is capable of procuring only the best.”

Really?

“… I have no choice but to accept this accord. But pester me not until the time has come.”

The Count seemed mighty pleased by his answer and squeezed his shoulder. “Good! Arrivederci, my fellow demon. Call for me, and I shall come.”

The man in grey watched the Count melt into the darkness, taking with him the perfume of tobacco. He rested a hand upon the piano. Not once did his eyes leave the shadows his unwelcome guest disappeared into.

A commission? What folly. The man in grey was an existence incapable of _making_. And for the dolt to think he was doing this all for a handful of sweets—

“The Count of Monte Cristo,” the man in grey murmured. “Pretentious. He is only a fool with too much time and money on his hands.”

Beneath his fingers, the piano trembled. _Sit, sit!_ it called to him. _Please, exorcise me of this song._ The man in grey had no choice but to heed its desires. He sat, his head full of hellfire and cigar smoke, of cross-shaped eyes and bone-white hair, and set his fingers upon the keys.


End file.
